


Your Name is John Egbert and You Have a Problem

by LYK (VergofTowels)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sneezing, feather allergy, sneeze kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/LYK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today your problem is that Jade is busy, locked in her room, and you actually have to go find Dave Sprite, because otherwise you’ll just eat all the Doritos you alchemized together out of boredom.  And probably die as a result.  So you’re zooming through some of the less-trafficked hallways of the ship, calling his name and rapping on doors at random and generally making a nuisance of yourself until he stops moping or whatever it is he’s been doing this time and comes out to get into trouble with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Name is John Egbert and You Have a Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Now with podfic, read by yours truly. http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?1ti1gi3t02iwa26

Your name is John Egbert and you have a problem. Well, in all actuality, you have a lot of problems, the greatest of which is that you have been stuck on this ship for two years already and it’s driving you absolutely batshit. Hanging out with all the consorts and stuff had been super fun at first, but you don’t want to have any more conversations about farming, or bugs, or your status as savior of a world you haven’t been able to think about very often, what with all that’s been happening. Plus, being surrounded by salamanders has you missing Casey quite a bit, and you can’t check on her for another whole year at least.

You miss being able to talk to the Trolls. You miss Karkat. You miss Vriska. Hell, you even kind of miss Terezi, even after that one time… And Rose is off there with them; you miss her a LOT. And of course there’s Dave.

You’ve had some good times with Dave Sprite, but the two Daves aren’t really the same, and it’s not because one of them sprouted a bunch of orange feathers. You don’t like to talk to Dave Sprite about what happened in his timeline because, well, it wasn’t _yours,_ and he gets pretty closemouthed and bitter, unsurprisingly. Then he’ll fly off into his corner of the ship, wherever that is, and brood for a few days. Jade says that’s healthy enough and you should just leave him alone, and he always comes back fine and ready to rap at you or play another round of the Ghostbusters MMORPG (to indulge you he says, but you know better. It’s addictive). You’re not really sure you believe her, but whatever.

Anyway, despite all those problems, today your problem is that Jade is busy, locked in her room, and you actually have to go find Dave Sprite, because otherwise you’ll just eat all the Doritos you alchemized together out of boredom. And probably die as a result. So you’re zooming through some of the less-trafficked hallways of the ship, calling his name and rapping on doors at random and generally making a nuisance of yourself until he stops moping or whatever it is he’s been doing this time and comes out to get into trouble with you.

“Dave Sprite! Where are you?” You ease up a bit on your windy powers and drop to your feet at the end of a long corridor. Man, you’ve been doing this for forty minutes already. This ship is altogether too big. And yet never big enough. You sigh and rap particularly enthusiastically on the next door. “Daaaaaave Sprite.”

You’re not expecting anything, so it takes you off guard when there’s a sudden noise in response. It sounds like a caw. It’s followed by a muffled curse. You break into a grin.

“There you are! Are you busy?” 

“Yes.” 

Wow, no hesitation at all. You lean closer to the door, even going so far as to place your ear against it. All you hear is the hum of the ship, though. You drop back to your heels with a bit of a clang. “What are you doing?”

“None of your business,” he replies, sounding irritated. This is followed by another squawk and more cursing. 

You frown. Dave Sprite makes noises all the time. In fact, though you used to tease him about it, it happens so often that the fun wore off months and months ago. It’s mostly when he’s surprised, though. Or on the rare occasions he actually yells. And this doesn’t seem to be either of those things. “Are you okay in there? Do you want me to get Jade?”

“No. You don’t need to get her.”

“But are you okay?” 

He doesn’t answer you, so you open the door cautiously and step in. It’s warm in the room, which appears to be identical to most of the other ones you’ve seen: same gold surroundings, same absence of decoration, same narrow cot. Dave Sprite has obviously claimed this as his own, though, since the cot is piled with blankets and pillows, which you guess he’s alchemized since you have no idea where they would have come from otherwise. The whole ensemble looks vaguely nest-like, but you’re not sure if that’s the birdy influence or just Dave.

Dave Sprite is curled up in the center of it, regardless, the only really visible part of him the end of his tail, which is twisting uncomfortably off the edge of the bed. He caws again as you step closer, this one more of a warning.

“Go away, John.”

You stop walking and shrug a shoulder. “Okay, okay! You can be grumpy by yourself if you want to. Not like I actually w-wanted to hih- hang out wih- hih- Heh- _chssh!”_ You blink and sniff. You haven’t sneezed in like… wow, maybe since you entered the game? Weird. You rub your nose, which turns out to be a bad idea, as it just triggers another sneeze, this one harder than the first. “Huh- _chhkssh!”_

“Not like I was using my eardrums anyway,” mumbles Dave Sprite, and you smile a bit ruefully. It had kind of echoed.

“Sorry,” you say, and then you remember you’re mad at him, so you turn on your heel, ready to storm out. Your nose is still bothering you though, and you have to pause to pinch back yet another explosion. _“Nngk!”_ Wow, what is going on? You shake your head and go to the door, but a rustly snap stops you. You look down, guilty, afraid you’ve stepped on something of Dave Sprite’s, and it turns out you have, just nothing too important. It’s a long, orange feather, now bent.

It’s not the only one on the floor, which wouldn’t normally alarm you, but there’re a _lot_ down there. In fact, almost the whole floor near the bed is covered, with more strewn about the base of the walls and over where you are by the door. Your eyes widen. “Dave Sprite…” You seek his eyes and catch him in the process of shifting in his nest. The usually puffy ruff around his neck looks uneven, worn away in some places, and even his _hair_ looks patchy. You hurry over to the bed, pausing just short of jumping up next to him. “Dave Sprite, are you sick? Why didn’t you _tell_ anyone?” You reach out to touch his shoulder, but he slaps you away.

 _“Don’t._ I’m not sick. I don’t even think I can get sick anymore.” He heaves a rough sigh, but when you cautiously try to touch him again, he lets you. Despite what he said, his skin is a lot warmer than usual and you can feel worry starting to eat at your stomach.

“If it’s not that, then what is it?” Now that you can get a good look at him, you can see that he’s been losing feathers everywhere. His wings look like someone took duct tape to them or something. His tail’s even lost areas of the soft, almost invisible down that covers it from waist to tip. You can see it stuck to the blankets and drifting in the air. You wrinkle your nose. _“Heh-chessh!”_

Dave Sprite looks discomfited as you wipe your nose on your wrist. “I’m molting. It’s like the feathery asshole’s version of dandruff, only all over your damn body and in the meantime it makes you look like a fucking roast chicken. Better get the oven ready, ‘cause this bird’s ready to get cooked. Stick me in for a few hours and I’ll turn a delicious golden brown.”

“I know what molting is, Dave Sprite,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You shed feathers all over the ship. I guess I’ve just never seen you do it like this.” You sniff, feeling a little better about the situation now that you know that’s all, but he still doesn’t look healthy. “Are you sure it’s supposed to work like this?”

He shrugs. “I think it’s a yearly thing. Anyway, this is the second time it’s happened.”

“Oh.” You don’t remember last year’s episode, but you don’t suppose he really wanted you to find him this year either.

“What about you?” he asks, after a moment. “Are you sick?”

“Huh?”

He gestures sort of at your face, looking more uncomfortable than ever. Man, this molting deal must be pretty annoying. You do get his meaning, though. “Oh, the sneezing? No. I, uh, think that might actually be you. I’m allergic to feathers. Or like, down pillows and coats and stuff. I almost forgot about it!”

He cocks his head a bit to the side. “But it’s never happened before.”

You absently pick up a feather and twirl it between your fingers. “Hh… _H-kessh!_ There aren’t usually so many. And they’re different when they’re not on you.” The feather you’ve got feels somehow more solid – more _real_ – than they always had when you’d brushed up against Dave Sprite during everyday life. “It’s like they’re not as spritey.”

“That makes no sense,” he grumps, folding his arms. “But if that’s the problem, you should go. You should go anyway.” He shivers and another feather floats from his ruff to land on his stomach. He brushes it away impatiently.

You still don’t like that he’s got a temperature, though, and the reason you came looking for him in the first place was because you had nothing else to do… Your nose isn’t bothering you _too_ badly, you decide, rubbing it again. “I could stay and keep you company,” you suggest cheerfully, and you climb onto the bed beside him.

He caws and puffs up at you, though it looks kind of sad when missing half the volume. “You don’t need to do that. In fact, the sheer amount that you don’t need to do it would fill the Marianas trench like eight times.”

“Shhh. You’ve stopped making sense.”

He shuts up for once and turns his face away from you, folding his arms across his chest. You make yourself comfortable among his blankets and try to ignore the growing irritation deep in your nose. Your bro needs you. You can’t just _leave._

Although sitting here in silence except for his shifting and your rather obvious sniffing is kind of awkward.

“How long do you think it will last?” you ask finally. It’s probably been seven or eight minutes and feels like twenty.

Dave Sprite glares at you, or you think he does behind the shades. “Were you hoping I’d just explode and emerge from the fluffy carnage with new plumage like some poor man’s version of the phoenix? I’m not going to be done with this shit in time for dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “No, of course not! I’m just curious.”

He shrugs and shakes another feather loose from his wing. “No fucking clue. Like a week.” 

“I s- sih- _hh_ … Hek- _chuuh!_ See.” 

Dave Sprite’s mouth thins and he makes an indeterminate, birdy sort of sound. You start feeling worried again.

“Does it hurt?” You never see him this expressive.

He sighs. “Not really. It’s just itchy as _fuck.”_ He sits up straighter in the nest and picks a bit at the inside of one wing, though it’s with a resigned air. “I can’t keep up with it, so I don’t bother trying, but it’s fucking torture.”

You smile. “Well, maybe I can actually help with that? I mean, I can reach the back of your wings and stuff. Maybe the molting will be done sooner, then, too.” You sniff and raise your hands, fingers curved into back-scratchers _extraordinaire._ Dave Sprite does not seem as enthused by the idea as you are, but he eventually shuffles around so you’re sitting behind him. You dig your digits into the fluff of his ruff first and scratch, actually feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ebb away.

“I guess this maybe wasn’t the worst of ideas,” he mumbles, as you pull away bits of orange down.

“I know everything,” you say.

“Lies,” he deadpans, but falls silent as you move to the base of his wings and outward.

You get into a bit of a rhythm and it’s as soothing for you as it is for him. You hadn’t noticed how stressed you were by being cooped up for so long and the skritching helps, even if it is coating your lap with fluff. Your lap and your hands and your forearms. Your nose has started to run.

“I’ve just gotta…” You stop working out a troublesome plume and Dave Sprite grunts at you, but he goes oddly silent as you start hitching. “Hhh… hh hh _hh hih-_ Nngh. Hahh- _hih-”_ You work the tip of your nose back and forth pretty vigorously, but the rubbing isn’t helping at all, just getting your fingertips kind of messy. Finally, your body can’t stand it anymore and you bend over, hastily clamping your hands over your face. “Hahh- _ekssch!_ Hih- _kchuu!_ Hh hh _hih_ Hhk- _essch!”_

Wow. Gross. You feel a bit of a blush starting as you realize how wet your palms are and are glad that Dave Sprite can’t see your face. You hurriedly wipe your hands on your pants, then clear your face with your wrist, wishing you had a tissue or five.

“Sorry, Dave Sprite,” you say, then sniff heavily. You make absolutely sure your hands are dry before resting them on his wings again. “Where was I?”

“Um, John…?” He’s tense again, really tense, and warm. “Maybe we should stop…”

You frown. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?” He’s so sensitive right now, you’re afraid you pushed something the wrong way and made him hurt. Or maybe he’s actually starting to feel sick or something, you _knew_ he wasn’t supposed to be this warm. What if it’s not a yearly thing and it’s actually really bad?

“N…o. No. I just… I’m tired. Think I’m going to hit the hay. Motherfucking beat the shit out of that hay, so they won’t even be able to tell it’s hay anymore. Haymicide. CSI: Old MacDonald’s Farm.”

You bite your lip. “Okay. If you’re sure.” Sleep probably isn’t a terrible idea. You sniff again, feeling an alarming shift of congestion, and sort-of cover your nose as you slide off the bed. Dave Sprite looks kind of flushed and miserable to you, but you hope you helped at least a little bit. “Do you need anything else?”

He shakes his head a bit too quickly. “Nope.”

“Okay… Then I guess I’ll see you la-” Oh _fuck._ “Lhh… Hih _hh_ Hetk- _chuussh!”_ There’s snot all over your chin, you can _feel_ it, and the worst part is, you can’t do anything. “Hetch- _chsssh!_ Hat- _chessh!”_ You try to shield the disaster, but it’s worse than your last fit, and you actually go the full beet red this time. Allergic tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you try to sink into the floor in mortification. You try to suck some of it back, but the noise makes you cringe.

Dave Sprite is staring at you and has gone almost as red as you, or would have if his blood was still human in nature. Instead, he’s an attractive shade of butter yellow, and his hands are clasped tightly at his sides. You really hope he doesn’t give in to the Strider urge to bullshit, but there he goes, opening his damn mouth…

_“Peep.”_

It sounds something like that, anyway. It’s more of a warbly coo than that, but you don’t know how to spell that and “peep” is easier onomatopoeia. Not that you understand why a crow would make a noise like that, and why is _Dave Sprite_ making noises like that, and he’s still looking at you, only now it looks like he’s the one who wants to die.

You raise an eyebrow at him. He turns and hides his face in the blankets, wings coming in protectively. His tail is all curled up at the end. You have no idea what just happened. 

Then one of Dave Sprite’s hands makes an abortive movement toward his lower stomach and your eyes widen.

“Dave Sprite…” You lower your hands, then decide you’re not above being gross and use your hood as an improvised handkerchief. You try to formulate a good way to broach the subject while blowing your nose, but you come up empty. In the end, you just blurt it out, cheeks still blazing. “Are you getting _turned on_ by this?”

“What? _No!”_ He caws at you and yeah, you pretty much hit the nail on the head, didn’t you? 

“Oh.” You pause, not sure what to do. Logic is screaming at you to get out of there. It’s not very _heterosexual_ to listen to your best friend get off to you, is it? No. But… Not that you would admit it to anyone, God no, but… You’ve had thoughts before. Thoughts about Dave, sometimes, and now, trapped on the ship with him, thoughts about Dave Sprite. And that’s not _wrong._ You’re not so much of an asshole you think something terrible’s happened to you. It’s perfectly fine to be curious. And you care about all of the Daves a lot. Maybe even enough to…

“What are you doing?” Dave Sprite asks, voice breaking, as you climb back onto the bed. _“John._ Just go away…”

You sit back, not wanting to crowd him. “I’m not like… weirded out, Dave Sprite.” Okay, you are a bit, but it’s not the strangest kink you’ve ever found while browsing the internet late at night. “You can stop hh- hiding.” 

He’s all tense again, but eventually he raises his face. His glasses have been knocked somewhat askew and you catch sight of a pale sweep of eyelashes before he fixes them. You bite your lip, feeling the start of a burn in your belly. 

“That’s better.” You sniff, knowing you’re going to sneeze again soon, but trying to hold it off long enough to be somewhat clear. “I… uh. I still want to _hih_ -help. And it seemed like the, uh, petting was doing that, and… Well, you’re, I mean, I think you’re pretty cute, okay? So the whole… _thing_ isn’t going to bother me, and maybe I even… feel something, too?”

Dave Sprite is staring at your hopeful grin like he’s never seen you before. You backpedal.

“Unless it’s only the sneezing thh-thing that you’re into and it’s not me at all, which I mean, _yeah,_ that would be weird right? We’re just bros, haha! Sorry, I’ll just- _hh_ hihk- _chuuh!”_

“…You’re an idiot.” He reaches out with a wing and pulls you closer, then wraps his arms around you. You wiggle a bit to get comfortable, then pat his side, down to where the down begins on his hip. He peeps again, but softly, and presses his face to your chest.

“That’s adorable,” you say, smile pulling almost painfully at your cheeks with how wide it is.

He headbutts you, then has a minor freak-out about his glasses – _did they bend? Are they okay?_ You slip them off before he can stop you and put them behind you on the bed. His irises are as orange as the rest of him and are warm with an inner glow. 

“How long are you going to stare,” he mumbles. “They’re just eyeballs. No matter how long you look, you won’t get past the shutters on the window to my soul. Ew, what are you, some kind of peeping tom? Can’t wait to get the scoop on my naked soul bits. Gross.”

“Shut _up,_ Dave Sprite.” You press your mouth to his to back up the point, though it’s awkward and kind of toothy and you end up having to pull away really fast lest you sneeze on his face. He doesn’t laugh at you, though, just goes kind of quiet and relaxed and says “Bless you” like you’re the only one who will ever hear it.


End file.
